


La Crise de Croissance

by RedIce



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedIce/pseuds/RedIce
Summary: Realistic SI-OC of Otabek. A normal girl kills herself, and is reborn as Otabek. This is my take on the reincarnation trope.(In my dreams, I fall up. Up into the sky, into the clouds, beyond the moon, the stars, the galaxy. I fall up, and cannot find myself. I suffocate, stretched out into nothing from the pull of the universe.And I cannot do anything.)





	1. Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shironaii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shironaii/gifts).



> Please leave a review on your way out. Constructive criticism is welcome.
> 
> This is my first fanfiction.
> 
> Warning: This story is going to be as realistic as possible, which means graphic depictions of violence and what is legally categorized as abuse, and much more. With that said, do not expect a happy ending or fully in-character characters, as anime is fiction. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not hold any rights to Yuri On Ice!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this is dedicated to my lovely Brenda. She unconditionally encouraged me, and gave me inspiration and helped me work out kinks. May I confess my complete adoration of her?

Let me tell you a story.

There were two girls who once lived in the countryside of China. One girl lived there with her grandparents, due back to America when her parents remembered her again. She could go to school and run freely in the fields and tried to make her parents proud, to pay attention somehow, to not be forgotten with trying her hardest at almost everything she did. 

The other lived with her father, who loved to drink more than his family. She went to school before, but then her father kept her in the basement, saying that school was for boys. So she lived there, waiting, every day, counting the stars and birds and maggots from the cracks in the concrete.

These two girls were best friends. 

Every day, the girl would run back from school as fast a possible and sneak into the other girl’s basement, because that was where her best friend lived. She brought canteens of water she refilled in the school well and her packed lunch for school. She brought stray figurines, gossip of the town, strips of cloth, and her homework. 

Knowledge is power, the girl in the basement whispered. Knowledge is power, so learn until you can run away from here, and keep on learning so nobody can ever cage you. 

The girl in the basement knew this now, because she was ignorant and trusting, and that was how she was caged. 

Knowledge is power, the girl who lived with her grandparents whispered back, so let me teach you what I learned today so when you are reborn you will always be free. 

And the girls smiled, knowing that the girl in the basement had a higher rebirth when she dies, because when the girl who lived with her grandparents pays respect to the images of Buddha each morning in the incensed ante-room for the both of them, she feels the surety of it.

This is reality. Where there are no heroes, or villains: only people. 

In reality, children grow up praying to dying gods. 

And in reality, this other girl perished slowly of infection, still shackled tightly with iron-cast chains through her achilles and between her cartilage-soft ulna and radius in that putrid basement cellar, hung out from the ceiling for her father to drunkenly slish-slosh in through the layer of congealed blood and piss and excrement to whip and beat and scream at her. And continued to, even after she died, not noticing the stench of death through the red of his rage until the body tore in half.

And a month and a half later, the girl who lived with her grandparents returned to America. 

\---

That girl- the girl who boarded the plane- is me. I told you this story because I want you to understand, dear reader, that from now onward, this is not going to be pretty. It’s not going to be happily-ever-after, or with adrenaline-filled adventure, or even with a resolution.

It’s going to be about me. And that is all I can promise.

\---

I lived a normal life. I had a family, pets, went to school. And then, when I was in the summer to start my second year of middle school, I killed myself. 

It’s a rite of passage- suicide. The want to escape builds up within you until it is your best choice- that, or of suffering the drag of the days for the rest of your life. It’s the point where you realize the true realities of life, and from this hopelessness, the selfish desire to end everything. 

Through this, you are an adult.

Of course, not everyone does it. Not everyone is a coward like me, unwilling to endure my pampered first-world life another day. Not everyone breaks, like my oldest brother, because he was the one who raised two younger siblings while juggling school and taking care of the house and protecting us from the fickleness of parents. And not everyone is like my second brother, who was three and too young to know that a seven foot drop would not kill him, but too scared of anyone finding out to try again.

Not everyone takes that last, selfish step. 

(But those that do are forever adults, their wispy childhoods blown away into the screaming chasm that is the world.)

\---

Before we begin, let me tell you four more things.

This is what I love: beauty, truth, power.

This is what I hate: stupidity, violence, myself.

This is what I am: twelve, desperate, tired.

This is what I became: nothing.

From these four things, it is easy to see how I grew up in my second life.


	2. Falling Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The progression of long-suffering Otabek and the accidental start of his career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is to my dear, ever-patient, lovely Brenda.

_(Inhale. Exhale.)_

 

Rhythmic, deep swooshing lulled me awake. Whether still alive, in the in-between, or reborn, I was at peace. Here, miraculously in this warmth, I had no past and no future- just the present.

 

If this was the promise of nirvana, I now understood the temptation. I knew I had sinned so much my karma would have reincarnated me lower, but this taste of eternal bliss...

 

_(I haven’t felt peace in so long.)_

 

Abruptly, the shock of norepinephrine and squeezing pain engulfed me, and for a long second I was tempted to scream. To cry and beg and writher.

 

But I couldn’t.

 

_(I’msoscaredwhyisn’tmybodymovingpleasesomeoneHeLpME)_

 

So I didn’t.

 

And on the 31st of October, 1996, Otabek Atlin, the first son of a first daughter of a first daughter, took his first breath.

 

Five hours later, Otabek Atlin was registered into Dom Malyutki #2 with a hospital towel, a straw hat, and three words:

 

Мен қайтып келемін.

 

I will come back.

 

* * *

 

Life was, as always, easy. Simple. As my ears tuned and my eyes sharpened, my days grew less muddled and my limbs more oriented. I struggled to pick up the language, which later I realised were two- Russian and Kazakh.

 

They were too dissimilar to any language I knew to have the advantage of cognates, except for the seldom English word borrowed and naturalized into the languages I was hearing. English, although the international language, was not used. And despite the geographical proximity of Kazakhstan to China as well as their genetic similarities, Mandarin was not used either.

 

So this was how I spent my days- learning, eating, sleeping. This was my second life, where I could repent for my sins to make up for my first. Where I no longer needed to be a burden, and instead focused on more productive endeavors: language, muscle control, situational awareness.

 

I was reborn as a human. I was reborn with the ability to have the greatest possible control over any situation.

 

That said, I needed knowledge. I needed power. I needed to be worthy enough to enough people so that my continued life would be guaranteed, but at the same time unoticable enough so that I could be left to do anything I wanted. And-

 

I wondered about my mother. My life. Otabek’s life.

 

But wondering was useless when I needed to become useful, first.

 

So I did.

 

* * *

 

It started when I first became truly aware of my surroundings. By this time, I could stay awake for hours and have attained a decent understanding of Russian and Kazakh, though I still confused some words for the other language. It was the first time I truly looked around, and, I suppose, even in this life, orphanages are orphanages.

 

Yes, I was fed irregularly, and I recognized only two adults- the caretakers, assuming for the infant division. But what I did not notice was how in this sea of hundreds of children, _there were only two adults_.

 

Let me back up here again. Two adults.

 

Even assuming that they only took care of the babies and toddlers, bottle feeding, changing nappies, and burping would take at least twenty minutes for each child; for around forty toddlers, each caretaker would have to work seven hours a day.

 

And this was not even including cleaning after the messes and caring for the sick and giving tours to prospective adopters, or the care of those above three years old.

 

Furthermore, the caretakers were only around an hour or two per day, if they even bothered showing up. And when they did, they worked with limited supplies

 

Food, toys, clothing, clean water- all of it was tight. When the rare donation came, the older and stronger kids quickly took them.

 

And the building itself was in half-disrepair. The mold covering the walls, the lack of beds or cribs or blankets, the broken heater and air conditioner and water pipes, the holes in the walls and ceilings…

 

To put it simply, these conditions were deplorable for a country that was a pleasant 22 degrees celsius, but in a country where the summers are 35 degrees and the winters -35, this was brutal.

 

This kind of childhood was terrible. I was terrible. So self-centered and uncaring towards anyone other than me that I didn’t even notice what about 200 kids were living through. How much they had to fight each other for a bit of bread, only for it to be stolen quickly by another. How many years they lived in a free-for-all, every person for themselves, no matter how young or sick or starved. How many more bodies were added to the burner each week, filling the air with ash so thick I’d mistaken it for polluted snow…

 

If you were old, you were better off on the streets. If you were young, you were better off dying.

 

_(If you were new, you better hope you survive the first month.)_

 

But- it doesn’t have to be this way. This: the fighting, the unhappiness, the commonness of death- was the situation, but humans had the power to change the situation. I had the power to help. It is my duty, when I’m passing my days as such a layabout in this place.

 

I could make up for my drain on time and resources that could be better used on the children. And in order to do that, I needed to know what I could sell.

 

_(My life.)_

 

* * *

 

This is what happened: I grew. I talked with people- young and old, rich and poor, strangers and ‘family’. I learned their fear, their hopes, their wants, their dreams.

 

I looked and looked and looked until I could see them.

 

And then, I gave them what they wanted.

 

_(As I said, life was, as always, easy.)_

 

* * *

 

But- are you still confused, dear reader? How life could be so easy? So simple, so uncomplicated?

 

Let me ask you something, then.

 

.

.

.

  


What is reality?

Reality is not truth. It is what people see and perceive. Its subject to perceptions and preconceptions and lies and ‘truth’.

**

But then, what is truth?

Know this: truth is not objective. Truth is never the total truth, because the complete truth does not exist; it is always subject to people’s interpretations. Therefore, the truth is always on some level, a lie.

In turn, reality is subjective to the beholder. We are all living in our own illusions, theoretically built upon our first few breaths and the ripples of other people. From then on, we are always living in our own delusions.

(We are all in the centers of our worlds, where nothing matters but us. After all, if a tree falls but no one hears it, it is impossible to prove it fell. Even if we saw the aftermath with our own eyes, we cannot believe if it really fell, because we were not there when it happened.

(Humans are utterly, intrinsically, selfish.

Remember that.))

.

.

.

Let me tell you a story.

When I was four, there were two mice I captured in a 16-oz take out container. They were brothers: one older, one younger. They were the same but in size, with pink noses and twitching ears and tiny toes. Each time they came upon each other, they sniffed each other, and chittered excitedly.

They lasted three days.

At first, they patrolled the clear plastic walls, restless and sniffing. They climbed on top of each other, reaching for the top, but they could not open the lid. They were condemned to certain death-suffocation, dehydration, starvation-and I watched them slow and shiver and shrivel and stop.

By the second day, their grey fur was moist with a yellowish tint. Whiskers wet with sweat or grease or perspiration, drawing brush-prints on the plastic. The brothers no longer circled their range, but lay resigned and anticipatory, as if they foresaw their death. Accepting of the longing, last grueling hours.

And then-

The youngest started to lick himself, hair slicked back, as if preparing for a black tie event. With a dress code of waxed hair and tuxedos. Halfway through, he stopped moving.

Two hours later, he oldest brother started to strip his younger brother’s stomach, soft unprotected belly skin easily giving way to sharp, desperate teeth. By the time the intestines slithered out, ribbons of skin lay abandoned and he was still gnawing, _gnawing_ , **_gnawing_ ** upon his brother, ceaseless as the roaring hunger within. And when there was barely anymore left he flipped the body stomach-down, and slowly ripped out the spine.

He knew he was going to die. So why not get a last feast out of it?

Satisfied, belly engorged, the oldest brother finished grooming his younger, and started licking himself, too.

And by the third day, both were dead.

.

.

.

(Why did I tell you this tale? Because, dear reader, in order to understand the perception of life, you need to understand the perception of death first.)

 

.

.

.

Movies and books don’t tell the reality about death: the way in their last moments, they lose control of their bowel and urinary muscles: how over days, the stomach bloats and inflates and explodes: the stink of decay that sets in even before they die: the still stare of the eyes, ever open, inviting flies and maggots and mice. How the bruises appear on the parts touching to the ground and then the skin marbles to yellow, how blisters grow and pop and luster, how bloody foam leaks out of the mouth, how eggs are laid inside all possible orifices, how the stink of rotten meat and bacteria and acid clings. How if left in the same place, a pool of liquids congregates beneath the carcass. How if left unattended, carrion can strip a full human body in hours. Death is not pretty or honorable. It’s disgusting and horrifying and numbing. It’s one of the starkest reminders of life. It’s also one of the most terrifying inevitabilities of humanity.

… But, what is death really? When the heart stops? When the brain is dead? Or sooner, when people lost their will or sight of their ideals? Or even beyond, when all is forgotten about them?

Considering this, then, what is life?  

They say life is beautiful. That it’s glorious, simple, the most complicated thing in the universe. That it’s just another stepping stone in the realm of a soul’s journey. That it just is.

They say that life is hard and twisting and just another perception of reality. Some say that in death, you are still living, but senseless and untethered. No hearing, feeling, tasting, smelling, seeing. Just living. Forever.

But life and death are not so easily defined. In every living creature, they carry a bit death. And in every dead creature, there is a bit of life. And so, in the way that there is no true life, there is no true death.

So what are life and death, truly?

…

(Perception.)

When it all comes down to it, everything is how you perceive it as. And so, this is life to me:

 

It just is.

 

See? Easy. Simple. You are given a life, and what comes forth is how you use your power to live it.

 

And that’s it.

 

* * *

 

Let me tell you something more:

 

Over the years, my family taught me many things. One is that if you have pride as a human, you don’t have to explain yourself. If you get in a situation where you have to explain yourself to save face, you do not have pride as a human. Lying is okay.

 

_(Cheating is not.)_

 

I have pride. Some days, it is a close existence between acting and reality. Other days, it is not. Sometimes, when people ask, “How are you?” I am tempted to be virtuous and honest. But I am neither, and so I lie. It is better to live burdened than to impose on the happiness of others, leading to more questions. It is better to live a life lying than to live a life without basic human pride, a life where friends and strangers watch my every move and me having to explain myself. It is better to be normal and unnoticed, blending into the faceless masses and moving as one.

 

_(It is better to be nothing)_

 

Another is that there is always someone better than you and worse than you. Be humble. Be quiet. Listen and watch. Learn carefully. And then, when you are ready, imitate their successes and avoid their failures. Be successful when they are not. Do better. Be better. But most of all, hide your weaknesses. Do not give an inch to anyone, or they will take a thousand miles and leave you gutted out on your own weapon. Do not trust friends, because they will betray you. Do not trust authority, because they are corrupt. Do not trust strangers, because they are unknown. Do not even trust yourself, because you are imperfect.

 

So when people ask, “How are you,” do not freely tell your weaknesses. Hide your imperfections, and carry on.

 

(. . .)

 

And that, that, my dear, is how I grew.

 

* * *

 

Three years passed and my mother still had not come back.

 

* * *

 

Four years passed and my mother still had not come back.

 

* * *

 

Five years passed and I’ve started to stop hoping.

 

* * *

 

Six years passed and the caretakers leave, and don’t come back. I think, _is this my karma_?

 

* * *

 

Eight years passed and I’ve stopped hoping altogether.

 

_. . ._

 

But I still kept my name. And if anyone saw the blanket and old straw hat hidden below my mattress, nobody said a word.

 

_(I’ve always been a fool.)_

 

* * *

 

On the New Year's of my ninth year, I was invited to go ice skating from an acquaintance. Who, you ask? How? Why?

 

In Almaty, the city is built on a valley, where the thick air weighs down on its people. But despite that, strangers are friendly, families welcoming, and the town's bustling.

 

Well, not really.

 

It is the culture to be friendly, but people are truly anything but. When people come to adopt, they go for the toddler who have not yet grown into themselves to know that their to-be-parents are not their true family. And the parents pick the toddler who looks the most like them to pretend that they did not adopt, but that the child is actually theirs.

 

Even worse, most of the children in these houses are abandoned, sick, and undernourished. Since there are not enough resources, the presentation and health of the children turn away many adopters, and even more, the bureaucracy takes years for approval of a couple, even if the paperwork is perfect. And to be even considered for adoption, the child must have their parents traced, but this step is mostly skipped out of laziness or lack of manpower and effort.

 

The whole system is against these kids.

 

Furthermore, the documentation of children is patchy at most. Each orphan is supposed to be entered into the database, have a medical exam, and secured a plan for education, but most of these files are empty or false. This means that the majority of the kids in my house not only never had a medical check up, but are also left for dead when sick or wasting, never went to school before, and have no official documentation. This makes them both prime targets for human traffickers and child labor, not to mention the sexual exploitation.

 

In big cities like Almaty, there is always a demand for sex, and the younger ones and the virgins rack up the biggest prices. Orphanage caretakers sell kids into this service, and even if they run away and live in the streets, over 60% of the girls become nightwalkers anyway, out of desperation.

 

It's a harsh life, but I listened, and gave what they wanted.

 

You see, people can’t actually get everything that they want through money. Money does buy materials and people and loyalty and luxury, but only until the bigger guy comes around. But favors…

 

Favors that cannot be returned by money are priceless. When I see an opportunity to do something, to make something better, to lessen my sick karma from my last life despite the serendipity of my high rebirth into a human, _I do it_ . I am selfish. I help others to lessen my guilt, to repent for my past life, to help _myself_.

 

So I taught those willing to listen what they were denied but what I selfishly took for granted in my first life- knowledge. Because knowledge is power, and they _craved_ power.

 

Of course, I started small. The credibility of a self-proclamation from a three-year old is lacking. But once that claim is inevitably slipped through the mouth of a five-year-old who could read and write when he couldn’t before, others start noticing. And soon enough, I had a reading circle and a growing bin of wrappings, torn pages of books, and trashed newspapers from around the orphanage.

 

And why stop there? I had power, and I could give it to them.

 

_(Knowledge is power, the girl in the basement whispered. Knowledge is power, so learn until you can run away from here, and keep on learning so nobody can ever cage you._

 

_The girl in the basement knew this now, because she was ignorant and trusting, and that was how she was caged._

 

_Knowledge is power, the girl who lived with her grandparents whispered back, so let me teach you what I learned today so when you are reborn you will always be free.)_

 

_. . ._

 

I could give them power, so I did.

 

I told them that if they knew how to count coins, they would never get cheated. So I taught them accountability and safekeeping. I told them that if they knew how to add and multiply and subtract and divide, they could keep count of their supplies, and know when they were getting stolen from. So I taught them basic math. I told them if they did odd jobs helping the local shops and families, they could save up for the harsher seasons, or have something to fall back on. So I taught them manners and social norms and monetary responsibility.

 

And soon enough, I had a school. Not very large, mind you, and not the least bit conventional, but enough that orphans who took to the streets came back to listen in, and vagabond kids with overworked and absentee parents peeped in too.

 

And with each lesson, I could see a difference. A small difference, but still a difference.

 

Ravil, one of the older teens, started working for the elderly couple four blocks away to upkeep their apartment, and now had a rosy tint to his cheeks from the various coats (Oh, our son wouldn’t ever need that, it would go to waste sitting in the closet) and plates of homemade Baursak (You’re too skinny, young man! Can’t have you fainting halfway through cleaning the windows, hmph!) they forced on him.

 

Gulshaim, a reserved, serious young runaway who sat in one rainy day on a ramble of the Heimlich maneuver, saved the life of the local baker’s son four and a half months later. After profuse thanks from the baker and his wife, they’ve offered free bread to her even on sabbath.

 

But the most change was with the orphanage itself. With knowledge, they now knew that kindness was more powerful than force, and accrued favors and relationships had more leverage than any kind of money. They knew this, and so exchanged the power I gave them for things they wanted: food, water, clothes, more knowledge.

 

And the thing about knowledge? Knowledge is power, yes. But you still keep all the knowledge even after you give some to others, because you still know it.

 

So you never lose power, no matter how many times you trade it.

 

The kids exchanging their powers grew healthier. More secure. Kinder. They started sharing their resources with the littler kids, and teaching them where I couldn’t teach. Started giving them power, even if they couldn’t use it yet. Started to introduce them to their own networks, preparing them to expand their opportunities.

 

_(And at the end of the first two years, I realised that I haven’t seen ash fall in a long time.)_

 

Before my eyes, the orphanage bloomed into something hopeful. New arrivals were not left for dead, but welcomed. Babies were not starved, but watched over by a rotation of older kids and read to. By building a system linking orphans to the town, the town took action and slowly gave back. A plumber whose daughter learned to walk again here fixed the broken pipes. By the dozen runners from the orphanage that delivered catering from the restaurant near the marketplace, food was no longer a priority, and the children started filling out their new clothes.

 

The building started looking more like a big family complex rather than an abandoned warehouse.

 

And, through the years, the reputation of the school has encouraged even some busy parents to drop off their kids here as they realized that there was always going to be at least four pairs of eyes on duty at any given time. Now, orphans were growing up with middle class kids alike, making friends with each other and playing with the same toys.

 

The orphanage grew to be a part of the city. Kids with or without parents were given the same opportunities, the same resources. Being an orphan was no longer a death sentence, or a condemnation for the rest of your life. And I was finally happy that I am useful. Still tired, but happy.

 

All because of the slip of a comment from one boy six years ago.

 

All because people took interest.

 

And- all because…

 

_(knowledge_

 

_is_

 

_power.)_

 

. . .

 

In the darkness of the awning twilight, after I’ve tucked in all 34 five-year-olds to bed with promises of more ballet lessons tomorrow with pretty tutus, I sigh, then smile.

 

_You would of wanted to be here, my friend._

 

_To see them grow free._

 

* * *

 

“Otabek, come on!” Bekzat, the boy who invited me skating, whined, throwing his mittened hands up for emphasis. He was an orphan a year older than me, until a barren couple that stumbled upon our school accidentally illegally adopted him.

 

They shouldn’t of kept feeding him. But they did, so they had to deal with him curled up in their couch and popping up in random places only to be impossible to extricate. By the summer, the couple had just exasperatedly given up and gave him a room of his own, not that they hadn’t already added another set of plates and an extra chair for him.

 

“Come on!” He repeated, this time grabbing my hands and hauling me up. “You already teach ballet, so this isn’t so different!”  That was true, but it was only because I was caught practicing grand battements by a triage of insomniatic six-year-olds and guilt-tripped into teaching them the ‘cool kicks’, despite my insistence that it might take them months before they could do it. The classes somehow became so popular that others started discretely (and some, not so discretely) attending, too. I just never stopped the classes, embarrassed but relieved that I could give them something that, while not particularly useful, was fun.

 

“And plus, if you fall, I’ll catch you.” he tugged me to the entrance of the ice, and I nodded, following him. I wasn’t scared of the ice, per say, but anticipatory of how to act like a novice when I was a pre-professional in my previous life. Granted, I was using rented skates, had no buildup of muscle memory in this body, and was on rough, pitted ice from the thirty or so others who also had the idea of skating on New Year’s Day, but I couldn’t shake the fear of suspicion.

 

Ah, whatever. If I looked too talented, I could always chalk it up to ballet. Ballerinas were graceful.

 

Let me explain: in my past life, I was a rhythmic gymnast. And like all athletes, I cross-trained. I was on my school’s long-distance running team for endurance through my routines, on the local YMCA swim team for better body lines, a pre-professional ice skater for better jumps and footwork, and of course, ballet for the basis of the everything. And musicality? I already had piano, but picked up violin for convenience of fulfilling a music credit at school, too. That didn’t count the dances I had to learn, too. Tango, waltz, tap, jazz, flamenco… a gymnast each year had four routines, and each routine was based on a different dance. Add in the difficulties of elements (required tricks, analogous to jumps and spins in figure skating) and apparatus (hoop, clubs, ribbon, ball, and the ever-frustrating rope), and you’ve got the beginnings of a properly trained, well-rounded rhythmic gymnast.

 

You can see how that all adds up through the years.

 

Of course, I didn’t do everything at once. That would be too much. I just did track and swimming during the school year, and ice skating during the summer. Everything else was throughout the whole year.

 

Simple, no?

 

It gets a bit more complicated, though. First of all, rhythmic gymnastics is considered a women's- only sport. Sure, there are the rare men who also are rhythmic gymnasts, but their routines are more like martial- art exhibitions than the stereotypical ribbons-throwing flowy dances. Rhythmic gymnastics is popular and well-known in Russia, where the legacy of Olympic dominance treats its top gymnasts like celebrities.

 

But in Kazakhstan, where the country is still developing after Soviet control, it has barely any professional athletic facilities, not to even mention money and governmental interest in supporting athletes. This means that the vast majority of athletes from Kazakhstan are self-made, without the resources and support that many others readily receive in their own home country. To make it worse, rhythmic gymnastics is unheard of by the general populace.

 

So I couldn’t explain how I knew rhythmic gymnastics.

 

But ballet…

 

Ballet was everywhere. In the newspapers, on T.V., on posters in the streets. There was a theater five blocks away from the city square, and on special occasions, they would hold shows open to the public.

 

People knew what ballet was. So I did ballet. And others assumed I learned it from watching.

 

They’re not wrong, but they’re also not right. However, it is more plausible than suddenly having skill in a sport I had no reason to have ever seen or heard of.

 

I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop doing _something_ of the sport I so love, so I searched for the most acceptable option. And ballet it was.

 

And if the knowledge of me doing ballet spread, I didn’t have to worry about hiding it, and it would also explain more than confuse- how my steps were always silent, why I was gone sometimes in the mornings, my odd gracefulness, my posture.

 

And now, it will help Bekzat assume the reason for my lack of flailing in the rink.

 

Bekzat, the ever-energetic ten-year-old, stopped holding my hand clutch the neck-high wall for balance as he carefully stepped on the ice.

 

And promptly sprawled headfirst into a mess of limbs.

 

“Need some help?” I couldn’t hold back a small quirk of my lips as I extended my hand to him.

 

“Don’t you dare take amusement from my pain, plebeian!” He was openly grinning, eyes sparkling in the glare of the studio lights when standing up again. “I bet you’re going to last one second on the ice, and then beg me to come rescue you!”

 

Oh, how naive. He shouldn’t of challenged someone that he didn’t fully know the skills of.

 

I calmly glided onto the ice, without hands, around him. “What was that?” I softly purred into his ear.

 

“I- I- I” His face lit up in mock anger. “Arg! You prodigies!”

 

Of course, I’ve heard whispers of ‘genius’ around me, but I simply dismissed them as rumors. After all, my past life knowledge would seem strange to some, but I didn’t really think too deep into it, too busy giving others power.

 

But to be called such so cavalierly, as if it were common knowledge…

 

“I’m no prodigy.” I lightly poked his nose with my index finger. It would be best to nip this preconception in the bud. “You’re just… a bit coordinationaly challenged.”

 

“Ha! As if!” He huffed. “You’ll regret that, I promise you!”

 

“Oh, yes. I’m practically _quaking_ in my boots.”

 

And I casually skated away, hands in my pockets, whistling as I went.

 

“Come back here, Otabek Atlin!” His high- pitched scream of ‘fury’ startling some skaters. “I’m not done with you, young man!”

 

I swerved, hockey-stopping, snow flying as my skates shaved it from the rough ice, and turned facing him, bowing.

 

“Yes, your majesty. Your servant shall do as you wish.”

 

Another scream of indignation rippled through the rink.  

 

Ah. I eyed the dozen or so accidents he caused from the alarmed skaters. I should probably stop teasing him, or else he will likely cause actual destruction of property, not just bodily injury.

 

I glanced back at him, face pucy and eyes comically bulging.

 

Nope, never mind. It was just too fun.

 

* * *

 

Thirty minutes into (relatively) peaceful skating, Bekzat suddenly grabbed my elbow. “Do you know what would be really cool?” His eyes gleamed. I got a bad feeling of what was going to happen.

“Wh-”

“If you did some awesome ballet moves on ice!”

“I don’t-”

“Pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeease?” He unleashed his puppy eyes. “Just one or two! Come on, just try it. Nobody’s going to remember you after today, anyway, so it won’t even be embarrassing!”

...Did he not notice that I half of the people in the rink I knew from the school? They would definitely not let it go if they saw me face plant in a jumble of my own limbs.

But as I looked back at him, Bekzat’s round, tearful eyes widened further, and his mouth quivered with a high whine, and-

“Okay.” I was going to regret this. Mark my words, I was going to regret this.

“OhmygoshthankyousososososososomuchOtabek!” His face suddenly morphed into what appeared to be a painful expression of pure joy.

“Please don’t hurt yourself-“

“You have to do a leg lift first!” He blurted. “Then like go super-fast into a ballet squat and one of those arabesque thingies!”

“Okay, Bekzat.” I stepped back. “Tell me if it makes you happy.”

I pushed with the outer edges of my blades forward, into the middle of the rink, as the majority of the skaters were using the sides for support as they wobbled rounds around the oval. Bunny-hopping for a bit of flashy momentum, I lifted my left leg into a side extension, at a lazy 160 degrees, and then shifted my hips so I was then at a full penchée for a few seconds, fingers gliding over the ice as my speed slowed. Dropping my left leg into a demi- pliéd second position, I angled my toes out so I half-circled on my outside edge, and the angled them in so I half-circled again, leaving an ‘s’ on the ice. Closing my feet together to a ‘t’ shape, I skidded to a stop in front of him.

“Was that to your liking?” Thank goodness I didn’t make a fool of myself out there. With this body, I didn’t know if I could still do anything, but thankfully I had year of ballet again to regain my body awareness. “I didn’t do it in order, but-“

“It was the greatest thing in the world!” He bellowed. In his excitement, six more innocent bystanders fell. I winced, remembering all the practices where I came back with bruises so dark my friends once thought I drew on myself in weird places for fun.

The ice was not soft.

“You have to do it again! And more! Oh, spin, too! And a jump!”

 

I was tempted to smile. “I don’t think I can do all that, Bekzat. This is my first time on the ice.” That was a lie. “Give me ten more years, maybe.”

 

“That was sure impressive for your age.” A tall, moreno teen interrupted. I didn’t notice him, and was startled when he spoke. He was old- older than us, maybe late teens, early adulthood. He was clearly comfortable, on the ice, and didn’t wear rental shoes. He didn’t look Kazakh, but more Slavick. Russian, or Ukrainian, maybe. He had sharp features. “And your first time, too? Are you sure you never skated before?”

 

Bekzat answered for me. “Yeah, this is his first time. He’s our resident genius, right Otabek?” He slapped a hand on my shoulder, and I tried not to wince. “He also teaches ballet down at the school! You should watch sometime!”

 

I watched in dread as Bekzat digged me into a deeper hole. What was he thinking, giving so much information to a stranger?

 

“The School?” He repeated, eyebrow raised. I could hear the capital letters.

Bekzat visibly perked. “You know, the orphanage? Otabek knows all about it!” The ten-year-old brightened further, if that was all possible. “He started it!”

To my horror, the stranger seemed even more interested. I just wanted to hide in the shadow of my shame. Melt into a goo of nothingness and erase my existence. Maybe Bekzat’s, too, while I was at it.

 

The teen smiled. “Then I _have_ to sit in sometime, O-ta-bek.” He slowly pronounced my name, like he was tasting it to see if it would roll on his tongue. “It would be my pleasure, to get to know such promising youth.”

 

The tall boy extended his hand. “I’m Georgi. Georgi Popovich.” And then- “I’m a figure skater at the St. Petersburg Ice Club, and you would be the perfect addition.”

 

My mind felt numb as I shook hands. So that was what he wanted. “Are you recruiting me?” I deadpanned, hoping the whole situation was a hoax. It must be prank Otabek day. It must be.

 

“Yes.” It wasn’t prank Otabek day.

 

“...”

 

“I’ll like to make arrangements with your parents about getting you lessons and traveling, and of course the equipment fees and-”

 

“Um… Popovich?” Bekzat played with his thumbs, voice quieter than his usual ear-piercing decibels. “Otabek is from the orphanage.”

 

“Yes, he teaches ballet there, which is splendid! He already at least has the basics down, if that little performance was of any indication, and his form would blend magnificently with the ice.” He reached into his pocket to fish his phone. “Otabek definitely has too much raw talent to just ignore. I need to call Yakov and-”

 

“No. Otabek is from the orphanage.”

 

Georgi’s face turned petulantly serious, as if humoring him. “Yes, I understand. He teaches there, which is-”

 

“What I’m trying to say is that he _has no parents_!”

 

This time, Bekzat’s outburst silenced the whole skatium. Georgi slowly faced me, as to confirm the statement.

 

I nodded.

 

The older teenager suddenly looked lost. “Well, then.” He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. Settled himself.

 

“Well, then. I still have to call Yakov, but since you’re an orphan, you’ll be under his guardianship. You can’t pay the fees, obviously, and the paperwork will be a mess, but we’ll talk later about those once you start competing. For now, the most important thing is getting you on a plane to St. Petersburg. Everything else can be figured out from there.”

 

And that, my dear readers, is how I was unceremoniously wrenched from the place I had just started calling home to the foreign world of figure skating.

 

Literally.

 

* * *

Visualisations:

 

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqGcJbeh0IM ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqGcJbeh0IM)

Spiral (Bekzat’s ‘arabesque thingie’), which was actually a Charlotte Spiral in story

Also, 0:06 stars a bunny hop

 

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suyKb3-JWyQ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suyKb3-JWyQ)

0:08 shows the side spiral (Bekzat’s ‘leg lift’)

 

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B06GeD1sD9Y ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B06GeD1sD9Y)

1:53 starts the Besti Squat (Bekzat’s ‘Ballet Squat’)


	3. Dreaming of Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disastrous beginning of Otabek's nonconsensual figure skating career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness. Due to lack of sleep, my artistic side has also dropped substantially, and I have not noticed until halfway through that I changed from present tense to past. The next chapter should be expected more than fashionably late, in present tense, and featuring (hopefully) some of our favorite Russian characters.

In the end, Popovich gave me five hours before we had to meet up at the ice rink again. Bekzat and I, in quiet shock, walked out to the streets of Almaty to face the setting sun.

 

“Are you going to go?” He broke the silence, not looking at me.

 

“Mnn.” I didn’t look at him either. “... I don’t know.”

 

Our footsteps matched. One, two. One, two. Like our breathing, inaudible in the swishing roar of the street.

 

My fingers brushed his for a second. I still didn’t look at him.

 

“You should.” He started. “Go, I mean.”

 

“Will you?” The crowd was thinning, the dark winter coats of the people like negative space against the rosy horizon. I exhaled, noiselessly. “The school?”

 

He said nothing.

 

“Not if you don’t want to, but just to supervise once in awhile. It’s pretty much self-sufficient now, anyways, and-”

 

“Yes! Are you kidding me? This is an honor! Otabek, you have no idea how much this means to me-”

 

My hands softly bumped into his again, lingering. I faced him.

 

“Thank you.”

 

With both of his hands, he cupped my hands, raising it up to chest. This much contact should of felt intimate, forbidden, the warmth of his hands against mine in the biting January air. But from the years of correcting his posture by the secondhand ballet bar, covering my hand over his showing how to synthetically divide, giving his bandages one last smooth-down, tucking him in with a press of lips before he realised I was younger than him- this breach in conduct felt… natural.

 

Even with his ever-present cheer, he learned how to read the situation. He was serious now. I was glad to see him still grow a bit with this before I left.

 

He held my hand like a promise, and smiled. His eyes looked alight in the red Almaty sun. Alive. Fierce.

 

_(My friend, are you watching?)_

 

“Don’t worry, Otabek! I won’t let your lifework degrade to shambles! I’ll be the best second-in-command ever! The kids would love me!” His voice turned tinny and teasing, mouth morphing into his trademark wide grin. ”I’ll be their new favorite, because I’ll let them do things that uptight father Otabek would never allow them to do, and by that time they’ll be calling _me_ әке instead of you and you’ll be the creepy stranger [аға](https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/the-meaning-of/kazakh-word-00e29486d4c3d9822614ec5d71dd0a6cd21f3f7b.html) who they will run away from at first glance.”

 

“Ah.” The left corner of my mouth tipped up. Bubbly, klutzy Bekzat was back. “I’ll be wary of the uprising.”

 

“Oh, there will be an uprising alright! You better watch out, because a new era is coming. The Bekzat Era. Where all the children will be free from your poisonous insistence of school for 8 hours a day and I will reign superior! I’ll convert them to breakdancing and-”

 

And that was how we spent our last walk together in Almaty. Overenthusiastic Bekzat spewing forth fantastical fantasies and eyes shining bright with humor.

 

And our fingers still tangled together, unnoticed by the both of us.

 

* * *

 

The closer I walked to the orphanage, the more abandoned the streets. The few walkers were bustling with urgency, and the people I greeted cast furtive glances.

 

Suspicion mounting, I entered the school, only to find that there was nobody there, except for the newborns and toddlers and Ravil, who was on rotation tonight. The rest of today’s team wasn’t here, either.

 

“Where?” I tilted my head, pointing him a look. I didn't envy him: calming two hundred babies was a headache and a half on a good day.

 

“Are the others?” I nodded. He knew me, by now, to know what I meant. “Don’t worry boss, they didn’t leave me for dead. They wanted to do something, and I volunteered to stay behind.”

 

I raised my eyebrow. I expected better of them. Ravil, Baursak, Gulshaim, and the twins were supposed to all be on duty today. Even if Ravil was okay with them leaving him behind, that still left Ravil, one teen, to take care of the hoard of babies for the night- including feeding, washing, and lulling each to sleep. The sheer irresponsibility of them, leaving only one person to care and guard the defenseless children..

 

The chocolate-haired teen laughed, mixing the pots of formula on the stove. “It’s perfectly okay! I can handle it! I’m not new to this, remember?”

 

I exhale slowly. “And everyone else?”

 

He turns off the gas and starts filling bottles, which I hand to him from the counter. “Ah… they’re also doing the same thing.” I stare at him, expectantly. “It’s not anything bad! And nothing’s going to happen anyway, boss, so it’s okay.”

 

“We don’t know that.”

 

“Well yeah, but honestly, nothing really happens around here anymore. And it’s only for a couple hours, too.”

 

I dip my head. Perhaps, if this was only a one-time occasion, I’ll allow it. It was my last night here, so there wasn’t any kind of punishment I could reasonably meter out, and it would be an unfair parting to them.

 

“Newborns asleep?” I asked. If he was the only one here, I should help out. I could rock a baby  while packing, easily. I still had half an hour left before I had to return to the rink.

 

“Not yet, boss. But you don’t have to help out! Don’t you have to do something really important now?” Ah. He heard. Baranovskaya mentioned the whole town heard, so I suppose he was alluding to my departure.

 

“Packing can be done one-handed.”

 

“No! I-I mean that you should go to the rink. You know. Early. You’re not on rotation, so you shouldn’t help, and I just think that you should really hurry to the rink. Like, in ten minutes, at the latest.”

 

Well, that was oddly specific. I hand him the last dozen bottles. “Why?”

 

He sputters for a bit, face reddening. Some of the hot formula splashes on the linoleum tiles. I bend down to wipe it off with a wet floor towel. “For no particular reason! I just think you should, boss. You’re going away soon, and you shouldn’t be stuck in the room full of wailing toddlers for your last hours in Kazakhstan. You should go out, and make some memories.”

 

I could see that his persistence with this was uncanny. I was interested in what he was hiding, so I gave him this win.

 

“It’s not my last hours. I’m coming back, whether you like it or not, Ravil. But… if I help you, I’ll go to the rink when I’m done packing.” This was a good compromise.

 

He took it. “Okay, but you have to focus on packing! No fooling around with the kids, and you have to leave the second you’re done, boss, or else!” Arms akimbo, apron smeared with milk, hair afly, Ravil was the picturesque scolding mother. He was really shaping up to a resolute, responsible young adult.

 

My lips twitched. “Of course.” And as I headed upstairs bottles in hand, I pretended to not see his victorious fist-pump in the air behind me.

 

Ah. The thrill of the accomplishments as a youth. How they grow.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later saw me with five sleeping one-year-olds, an old suitcase, the black backpack Baranovskaya threw to me, and a deeper appreciation for the bastard.

 

“I’m going.”

 

Ravil turns to me, startled. I didn’t suppose he thought I’ll pack that fast, but I didn’t have much to bring. A third of my suitcase was empty, even with the satchel inside.

 

He shuffled to me, settling down a drifting toddler in the nearby basket of fresh laundry. We extend hands, and his hair falls, hiding his face from view.

 

“Hey.” He gazes up, eyes in half-moon smiles and lashes damp. For a moment, the kitchen is just filled with the distant sounds of hundreds of children upstairs, creating mayhem. It’s a wonder how every night, the teams can soothe all of them to sleep before the stars rise.

 

“Why do you have to leave?” He whispered, as if it came out, unbidden. Immediately, his face flushed. He cleared his throat and continued in a deeper voice. “I mean, don’t forget to come back to visit us lackeys, boss.”

 

I nodded, and opened my arms wide, dropping my luggage. “Come.”

 

Ravil rushed in and squeezed, his arms tight around my chest, his chin leaning on my forehead, dropping his pretense. I tilted my head up, gazing into his eyes. They were watery, and threatening to spill.

 

“Take care of yourself. The kids. The school.” His breath hitched. “And tell everyone to be careful of-”

 

“Yellow-eyed bastards.” He sniffled, discretely. “yeah, we got it, mom. Don’t worry, we’re always careful. Just yesterday, the outsiders thorning their way in the south side disappeared. The city’s still as clean as ever.”

 

“You’re going to have to do the introductions to the new kids without me, then.” I joked. He barked a laugh, surprised, and untangled himself from me. Then in alarm, he checked to see if the baby was still asleep. It was, and his shoulders slumped in relief.

 

Ravil nodded, and stepped back. “Go, then. Don’t let me delay you, boss.” His laugh was wet, this time. Like the half-ragged gasping after a run on a humid day. Like the clean scent of petrichor after weeks of dry dust.

 

And when I walked the muted streets of Almaty, I didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

The surprise ended up being an impromptu party outside the rink, clogging the streets with the people of the school and the city. They bombarded me with food and gifts and thank-yous, and by the time it was to go, I still didn’t find Popovich, and my arms were laden with more than I could bring. Even Baranovskaya was there, away from the pressing crowd, regal in his casual elegance. His sharp cheekbones and half-lidded eyes glinted in the streetlights as he sipped from a tumbler.

 

I felt the force of Baranovskaya’s eyes pinning me. Holding me down. Reminding me, _you owe me_.

 

I studiously ignored him.

 

On another note, Bekzat, for the love of luck, was by my side today.

 

“Hey hey hey Otabkek!” He rushed, grabbing my elbow to lead me into the crowd. I was getting… crowded, and it wasn’t very comfortable. “So right after you left to the orphanage I told my old man that you were leaving and then he told my ma and the crazy cat lady and then they told the school and then Ravil told Заманбек Нұрқаділов and then now we have a party!”

 

His smile beamed at me with the force of a thousand suns. I was nearly blinded.

 

“Заманбек Қалабайұлы Нұрқаділов? Zamanbek Qalabayuly Nurkadilov?” I asked, voice straining above the clamour of the people. He couldn’t of told the mayor. Why, Bekzat, why?

 

His smile increased in intensity. He nodded, and my nose twitched. His face was rigid, unnatural despite the expression fitting in with his usual character.

 

Ah. He didn’t want to leave me either.

 

“Help me avoid him?” I didn’t want attention, and giving Bekzat the option of sticking with me was the most I could give. Besides, I was grateful for his unintentional party for me.

 

“Of course!” He tilted his head, smile turning angular. “How else would you survive without me?”

 

“Horribly.” I deadpanned.

 

I tapped both his shoulders, then his head. “Protect me, my knight in shining armour. I am in distress.”

 

“Gladly, my prince.”

 

I never felt Baranovskaya’s eyes leave me.

 

_(Inhale. Exhale.)_

 

I scanned the crowd, asking for an excuse to escape the blurring thrum of people talking to me, giving things to me, _touching_ me.

 

They came here for me, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate them.

 

“-And you have to take my chak chak with you, Otabek; I fried it just for you! Oh, dearie, how the city will miss our hero so much-” The crazy cat lady’s hands gripped my forearm too tightly. I wanted to rip my arm out of her grasp and take a shower in ethanol. In the near future, preferably.

 

“-Excuse me, madam.” I intoned, as forcefully as I could muster. I speed-walked to Popovich, whom I just caught sight of a moment earlier, and was luckily just besides my luggage. He looked lost, as if he didn’t expect such a congregation.

 

“We need to go.” I zipped open my suitcase, and started stuffing the various gifts inside. Only a fourth of it fit, so I put what I could in my backpack and a borrowed trash bag.

 

“What-” Popovich glanced down at his phone. “Yeah, we need to run. My car is down the bottom of the street.” He watched me lift up the backpack and secure the mound of food and clothes and money, grabbing his own luggage. “You ready?”

 

I nodded, and began jogging, encumbered my close to 15 kg of excess things. It was ungrateful to not accept them, but at the same time I didn’t want them. I would keep them until the airport, I decided, and give it to people who actually need it there.

 

Popovich followed shortly afterwards, and we fled, downhill, to his car. And angrily drove all the way to the center of the city.

 

Wow. Such hating. Very anger.

 

In reality, I said nothing.

 

“When is the flight?” I tried to make conversation. I was unnerved by his concentration on the road. If that was turned to a person…

 

“9:45. And the airport is still 18 km away.” He gritted out. The car skidded to a jolt, and he punched the wheel, emitting a loud, impatient beep. It was a red light.

 

“Ty che, blyad!” I flinched, not expecting it.

 

_(Inhale, exhale.)_

 

I had the body of a nine-year old boy alone with a teenage stranger that gave me no choice but to join an unknown rink in another country. I was at the whims of an angry Russian man who was driving a car. Controlled where we went. Controlled if I lived or died.

 

I gathered my courage. I had the power to diffuse this situation, and to make Popovich, the person who would have control over me for the considerable future, potentially more friendly.

 

“Turn right.” He cursed, again, and I hung to the seatbelt dispensers as we swerved. He actually listened to me, which was more than I was hoping for. “Turn left. Merge right...now turn right.”

 

The dark haired teen glowered at the dashboard, eying the time. It was 9:40, but we only had 5 more km to go. The airport security takes roughly 45 minutes. We were already 40 minutes late.

 

“Enter the parking lot on the right, and keep straight.” Popovich wisely cut through the semi-empty lot, entering the street again not 5 seconds later. “Merge left, and turn left in 6 blocks.”

 

This route was longer distance wise, but was less populated and allowed for a speed limit of 90 km/h by entering through the back gate of the airport, where the waiting area for boarding planes were.

 

We were going at 110 km/h.

 

The car emerged onto a wide expanse of asphalt, with huge white planes growing larger. “Which flight is ours?”

 

“B146.” That’s good. The B planes were all on the right tracks. “Turn right.” He did, accelerating as he did so, narrowly missing a flagger.

 

The pilot of the only rumbling B plane had their eyes on us, a crazy speeding car coming straight at them. We stopped, just barely, and Popovich held up his ticket through the rolled down window.

 

And then we were boarding the plane to St. Petersburg.

 

* * *

 

“So this is what you brought back with you?” Yakov was a big, intimidating man. He gazed down at me, and I felt small. “Georgi, you know you can’t bring home strays like that. First Vitya with that Maccachi something and then you. At least Vitya got an actual stray.”

 

He puffed air out of his nose. Quietly, he muttered: “I don’t even think this is legal.”

 

Georgi, for once, looked hesitant. “Um… I didn’t really think about that. But once you see him on the ice, you’ll try to snatch him up before Celestino or God forbid, Alain and Nathalie. He only skated once on the ice before!” Popovich pushed me onto the rink, forgetting that I wasn’t wearing skates. “He has great body lines, and has the innate feel of the blade. _I_ didn’t even understand the blades until last year!”

 

Popovich flashed puppy eyes at Feltsman. “Please, just see him skate for two minutes, and then if you say we can’t keep him, I’ll return him back to Kazakhstan.” By the skies above, how low was he going to denigrate himself for me?

 

Yakov’s harsh face settled into something pensive. “Well, if you’re really serious about this, then I suppose I’ll watch. But only for two minutes, and if I don’t like him, you have to send him back to Kazakhstan yourself.” His face shifted back to his resting disapproving face. “And did you even consider that it wasn’t the boy’s first time on the ice? You’re an international skater- he most likely knew who you were and tried to impress you more by lying.”

 

They both looked at me. Yakov muttered something under his breath, and left Popovich and me alone in an awkward silence.

 

“Why did you argue with you coach about me? Like he said, I could of lied to you.” It made me uneasy of how willing he was to fight for me, a strange boy not even reaching 125 centimeters.

 

“Because you didn’t lie to me. And because I believe in you.” He smiled, a startling contrast from his angry visage before. “Well, actually, when I saw you, I thought that I could impress Mila with my child-care skills via a mini-me…” His grin turned sheepish.

 

That was quite a selfish and short-viewed reason. Did he not consider the complications of a child? I could have ruined his life! And all for hopefully impressing a person.

 

And mini-me? I looked at him again. We both had dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin, but that was about it. He was Slavick, and I was Asian. A Russian, most likely Orthodox Christian, picked a kid from a country full of Chinese-looking Muslims that spoke Kazakh. He was already towering over the fender at 170 cm, and I was destined to never reach 150 cm, due to my Asian heritage. His face was full of angles, but soft at the lips and eyes. Mine were all soft, face round and features curved. He was already apparently a famous international skater. I was a nobody.

 

I couldn’t see the resemblance.

 

“And… thanks for those directions back there. They really saved us.” Popovich’s laugh was nervous, low titers echoing in the deserted rink. “It was a good thing that you’re an Almaty native.”

 

“No trouble.” I thought back to his cursing and near-violent intensity on the road. Yes, there was trouble. I never wanted to be alone with him again, if he could get like that.

 

Yakov came back holding up an old pair of skates. “Try this,” He shoved them into my hands. “They were Mila’s from a couple years ago. They’re the smallest I could find.”

 

“Thank you, Feltsman.” I sat on the matted floor to tie them on, but Popovich kneeled down to tighten them.

 

Popovich grunted. “We need to work on you arm strength.” I bit my tongue. It was true- if I couldn’t even tie my own skates, how could I hold my own across a long program?

 

The teen patted me on the back. “Go, Otabek. Do some ballet moves.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And I did.

 

I pushed my left boot, then my right, until I propelled myself to a good speed. Extending my left leg to 170 degrees in front of me, I held the position for three seconds, arms textbook, and then shifted my hips so now my left leg was to my side. Shifting my hips again so that now I was in a full penche, I switched from an inward blade to an outward blade, so that I glided towards the rails.

 

I didn't think about Feltsman or Popovich.

 

The cold, stale air bit my ears as I repeated my earlier actions, only with the other leg, and gliding backwards. On the penche, I pulled my back up into a needle, and slid my arms and hips until I was holding my skate from the blade, right leg to my side. Releasing my leg, I glided sideways in first position, then second, half-circling so I made an ‘s’ shape on the ice. I knew I couldn’t do third position, so I settled my feet into fourth, then widened my stance into a half- lounge.

 

Ballet consisted of turns as well, so I raised my left leg into an arabesque and then bent my knee to turn into a side extension for the italian fouetté, repeating with my other leg. My ankles wobbled for a heart-stopping second. I hockey-stopped, and tried to turn from a diminished fourth position, pumping with my left leg into a Cecchetti style fouetté rond de jambe en tournant. My blades fumbled, tripping over each other, and I lost control of the turn. But I had no time to think. I estimated that I had thirty seconds left, and I still didn’t show a jump.

 

_(Inhale, exhale.)_

 

I didn't attempt a jump in roughly a decade, and was wearing ill-fitting boots. I only accomplished the previous few moves without looking like a mess by locking my muscles and holding stiff, which would be impossible for jumps. Furthermore, I had no idea if I even remembered _how_ to do one, and in a new body, as well.

 

I was going to make a fool out of myself.

 

Accumulating a bit of speed, I began a tour jeté forwards without preparation, and tried to land in a pliéd arabesque. I fell, but I climbed back up and hoped I could squeeze in the jump, so I pushed for a bit of momentum again and attempted a saut de basque without a chassé entrance. This time, I opened my left hip too early, and fell on my elbow, sliding a few centimeters until I hit the edge of the rink. I heard Popovich’s footsteps hurry to me, but I stood up and skated to between him and Yakov before he was halfway there.

 

I failed, especially after Popovich recommended me so highly to Yakov. This was okay. This was good, actually- I could go back to the school, resume teaching, living quietly and giving others-

 

“I’m keeping him.” Yakov stated.

 

My elbow was not the only part of me numb, now. I felt as if I hit the funny bone of my whole body, the shocks traveling up until I felt nothing.

 

Popovich pouted. “But I found him! You can’t keep him!”

 

The balding man gazed skyward. “You know what I mean. From now on, I’ll coach him. But you’re the one that has to introduce him to the others, and teach him the basics. And did you think about where he was going to stay before you dragged him from Kazakhstan?”

 

“... Slightly?”

 

I internally sweatdropped. How could this be the same person as the one who hit things out of frustration? He seemed bipolar, in a surreal comedic way.

 

“I would rather stay at the rink, if that is alright with you.” I interjected. They turned to me, as if just now they noticed I was there. “This facility provides a shower, a sink, and a few offices, correct?”

 

By now, I was just pulling these ‘observations’ out of thin air. I didn't want to stay with Popovich, nor entrust my well-being upon an ill-tempered older man. They were looking at me strangely. “I require no more than a place to clean up, a place to sleep, and a secure place for storage. You needn't bother debating more about this issue, as I am content with these amenities, readily provided here.” I gestured to the locker rooms area, the only door out of the rink besides the exits that I could identify.

 

Yes, this would be perfect. I could practice as much as I wanted, live in privacy, and not fall in debt with either almost-bipolar Popovich or intimidating stranger Feltsman. I would sleep in one of the empty offices, and be safe in the rink, as long as nobody suspected someone lived here. Furthermore, without people watching over me, I could continue teaching through the phone or skype or something… I knew I definitely didn’t want to abandon the school, especially now when it came so far.

 

Yakov was the first to recover and find his wits. “Absolutely not. You’re a minor, and we’re responsible for you, despite Georgi’s-” Here, he inserted a chastising side-eye, “-harebrained actions. We can’t have you unsupervised and living on your own without even a proper home.”

 

My hopes fell, and Popovich followed, coherent enough to comment, “Oh, and Otabek, you’re not bothering us. I was thinking of you staying with me, or if you don’t like it, I’m sure Yakov wouldn’t mind.” He paused, as if coming to a new idea. “Or you could even alternate days among us, if you want.”

 

Together, they looked so earnest, especially Georgi. I didn’t know what to say to still keep good relations with them while avoiding spending time alone with either of them. Feltsman clapped his hands, jolting us all to the present.

 

“It’s late. Otabek, chose who you’re going to stay with, and we’ll meet up again in the morning.”

 

I made a split-second decision. I’ll rather fear the unknown than stay stagnant in the known. Staying with Popovich, despite only knowing for the latter half of a day, would set precedent and would ultimately make it harder for me to move on later.

 

“You.” I nodded to Feltsman, untied my laces, and gave the boots to Yakov, unsure of where to put them. Georgi wilted. I didn’t mean to blacken this new relationship so early, but it had to be done. “Popovich, I don’t mean to say that you’re a bad caretaker, but I’ve spent a lot of time with you today. Your coach seems a bit more calm.” Liar. I just didn’t want to be stuck with Popovich. “I’m looking forward to you teaching me tomorrow, though.”

 

The moreno teen smiled, a sudden contrast to his previous melodramatic gloom. “Me too! And don’t call me Popovich.” His lips twisted in distaste. “Call me Georgi.. Or even better, papa!”

 

...That was a bit too much.

 

“Goodnight, Georgi.” I waved. Prematurely, I realised a second later, as we were all going to the same exit.

 

Feltsman and I walked to the parking lot with Popovich. Yakov called him. “Georgi?” Popovich perked up, in a good mood from his previous exclamation.

 

“Yes, coach?”

 

“Don’t do that again.”

 

* * *

 

Feltsman ( _call me Yakov, I’m not that old, boy)_ lived in a mansion. An actual, honest-to-god mansion with chandeliers and centuries-old art pieces and unnecessarily ornate decor.

 

Just like that yellow-eyed bastard Baranovskaya. I eyed the surroundings for any tumblers and oak desks, but there wasn’t.

 

He lead me through a series of corridors, empty except for us. In fact, it seemed like the whole mansion was occupied only by him, and now, me.

 

“Here’s your room.” He opened the door, and waved his arm. It was, like anything else in this extra mansion, opulent. The cremes of the walls were overshadowed by the endless black sky of St. Petersburg. It felt sacrilege to exist in such finery. I was unworthy, I felt. The itch to repent welled up, insurmountable and unbidden.

 

“I’ll be at the door to your right.” He motioned to a quasi-archway that stood for a door five meters away, identical to mine. Just how large were the rooms? “If you need anything, I’m there.”

 

Feltsman took a step back, and I nodded. “Breakfast is at 6:30, down this hallway and to the left. If you get lost, follow the noise or ask someone.” So more people than us were here? That was unsettling. There were strangers- unknown, in an unknown amount, here, in unknown locations, in this stranger’s mansion. And I still wasn’t sure if they were who they truly said they were- international skater and coach, and not a duo with more malicious intentions.

 

“I’m Otabek. From Kazakhstan.” I restated the little that Popovich slipped out. Held out my hand, like this was the first time I saw him.

 

“Yes… I’m Yakov. Yakov Feltsman. Russia.” Ah. Now, I had a name.

 

“Thank you.” He took me into his home. I could not do anything substantial now to repay him. But I will.

 

“You’re welcome. It wasn’t my idea in the first place, but I have a feeling that it will work out.” He harrumphed, exasperated yet fond simultaneously. “One day, these kids will drive me up the wall. But so far, they haven’t done anything that ended in disaster.”

 

Yakov viewed my expression. “Don’t tell any of them that, though.”

 

My lips quirked.

 

“I won’t.”

* * *

 

The night’s unfamiliar rhythm was a constant reminder to my unfamiliar surroundings to my consciousness. Once the door closed and I listened to the platter of his feet to his room quiet, I gnawed lightly on my arms, bites gradually raising marks. Not enough to hurt, or even to last for a few hours, but enough to quell the frustration of the itch away. The room, in elegant crèmes and whites, housed a queen size bed and a walk-in closet. Across from the desk lay a private bathroom, complete with a shower and another closet.

 

Wonderful. The closets were big, easy to get in and out of, and had good enough ventilation if I cracked open the sliding door a bit. The floor was carpeted, too, and so I dragged the pillow and blanket and settled in, besides my luggage.

 

The air was sweet and sharp, unlike the dense moist fog of Almaty. All I could hear was the vacuum of the night, great and all-encompassing. The hum of electricity through the walls. The cracks of branches falling in the dry winter air. The rising whistles of errant winds.

 

It felt like my first home, back in America. Where I grew into the silence and melted into nothingness.

 

_(I dreamt of the black vortex of eternity)_

* * *

 

“Yakov. Where may I acquire skates?” These were the first words I spoke to him the next day, back straight and hands folded beneath the oak dining table. It seems that in every mansion, I cannot escape oak tables. I refused to think deeply about it.

 

“You’re up bright and early.” Yakov sat down heavily upon the chair across from me, seemingly have not slept all night. The bags under his eyes were pronounced.

 

He reached for the pot of coffee and poured some into the already prepared cup. I followed the sound of the cooking this morning, and found that he had three helpers: a maid, a butler, and a gardener. It felt unreal. Money was obviously of no shortage to this man.

 

He gulped down half a cup, black. “You had some problems with the height of the jumps yesterday, so we’ll probably get you John Wilson Elevation blades. Your ankles are a weak, too, so I was thinking a stiffness around 95. But then again, your spins are a strong point, so we need flexible support and probably a more curved rocker…”

 

That was actually pretty close to me in my last life. I had John Wilson skates, 99 Rev, which were lighter for ease of jumping and parabolic, for smoother movements. Because I had weak ankles and flat feet, I had to put in my ballet shoe inserts and running toe cushions for the jumps. My Risport boot was stiff enough to support my ankles landing jumps, but soft enough to bend during sit spins. I usually land on my toe, a remnant of ballet, so my toe pick tended to run down quickly. Bigger teeth for the blades were good for jumps, but a more curved blade gave step sequences and turns a deep smoothness. However, it also decreased control of the skater’s direction, and if the skater didn't have muscle tonality, sloppiness and increased falls.

 

To be honest, I was surprised I didn’t mess up more as this was only my second time in about a decade on the ice, especially with no warmups and with ill-fitting skates.

Yakov downed the rest of his coffee. “We have some stored in the shop at the rink. I’ll get you fitted there, and Georgi will start your lessons right after.” That was good, then, that I warmed up before breakfast.

 

“Eat, boy. Georgi is already at the skatium, waiting.”

 

I pushed around the kasha and butterbrots, not hungry after the mound of food forced into my arms last night. I didn’t usually eat breakfast, anyway. So, I stood up.

 

“Let’s go?”

 

Yakov bit the last of his scrambled eggs, and placed his fork down.

 

“Let’s go.”

* * *

 

We entered the skatium at 6:35, the rink a five minute drive from Yakov’s mansion. To my surprise, there was a good dozen skaters there, already on the ice, practicing.

 

Georgi was at the glass door, purple and blue skate guards on, twitching his leg impatiently.

 

“Good morning, Georgi.”

 

The dark haired teen whirled around and grinned, exclaiming loudly: “Hello! Good morning, little man! Ready for some fun lessons?”

 

A silver-haired teen on the side of the ice perked up, curious, took one look at me, and full-out ran towards us, arms open. “Georgi! You brought a tiny human with you!” He glomped me, not even caring about ruining his blades. Although the foam mats gave some protection, it was not suitable to preserve the precise angles the blade needed to maintain for its concave curve between the edges.

 

He was _touching_ me-

 

“You’re hurting the kid. Don’t squeeze him so hard.” The long-haired silver teen hugged me tighter. “Look, he’s wheezing.”

 

He reluctantly let me go. “Georgi, you have to introduce me!” His smile was wider than Bekzat’s. So wide it took up half his face and pushed his eyes shut and his mouth formed a heart shape.

 

I didn’t think that was possible.

 

By now, the majority of the skater’s attention was on me. A redheaded girl sashayed closer, leaning on the padded rail, blades gleaming from the accumulation of melted ice shavings. She must have been practicing something with a lot of sharp turns, then, or have been in the rink for more than half an hour. Both were equally possible.

 

The teenage girl with a bob of red hair added, “Yeah Georgi, introduce me to the new kid. He your cousin or something?”

 

Georgi’s face turned red, mouth opening and closing in vain for something to say. Yakov face-palmed.

 

“I am Otabek, from Kazakhstan. I hope to become acquaintances with all of Georgi’s rink mates.” Now free to breathe, I extended my right hand, waiting for a silent two seconds before the silver haired teen shook it, puzzledly.

 

“So you're his brother? I never thought Georgi would be related to someone so uptight. He never mentioned he had one. Georgi, why didn’t you ever tell us about your family?” He lamented. Why, another dramatic Russian…

 

“My name is Otabek Atlin, and I am not related to Georgi. Although, if you want me to be, I can.”

 

Cue confusion.

 

Georgi was the one to speak. “What?” Well, now that I said it, I had to explain it. This information would come out sooner or later anyway.

 

“I do not exist.”

 

“What?” This time, the silver-haired glomper questioned me. “I just felt you, and you felt pretty real.”

 

I hummed, not used to speaking more. Ah, I knew Russia would be tiring. “I do not exist. I am not registered in any census or forms, and I am not a citizen of Kazakhstan, despite being born and raised there. Otabek Atlin simply does not exist. Not legally.” Well, except for the orphanage. But those files went missing in an accident just a year after I turned five. “I can forge my papers, though, so it won’t be that hard to say I’m Georgi’s brother. As long as he’s fine with it, too, I don’t see why not.”

 

Suddenly, I noticed the rink was quiet. Did I do something wrong?

 

“...”

 

Yakov bumped the back of Georgi’s head lightly with his fist. “So, last night not only did you kidnap a minor, but you had to illegally smuggle an undocumented kid from another country. This will ruin your career! What were you thinking, Georgi?”

 

He grinned, nervously. “Um...I wasn’t? And plus, he’s not undocumented. He said he could forge his papers!”

 

“Georgi!” Yakov’s hands were waving quite near to me, frantic in their energy.

 

This situation was getting too heated for my tastes. “Excuse me, but when are we going to get started? We have been standing around here for fifteen minutes.”

 

Yakov, seemingly recovered from his near-aneurysm, steered Georgi and me halfway across the rink, passing the staring congregation of Russian skaters to the back of the skate rental and into what seemed like Ollivander's wand shop, but full of skate boxes. He shuffled to the back, where the smaller boxes were.

 

“What’s your foot length?” Yakov was brusque, not glancing up at us.

 

“22 centimeters.” Skaters generally used foot length rather than shoe size, as size was arbitrary by different companies.

 

“Put this on. MK Phantom Rev, 110 stiffness. Skate a lap, and then try some spins or jumps. We’ll come back and try some more to see which one gives you the best fit now.”

 

He stacked five more boxes from random places in the room and walked out with us, my laces tied (again) by Georgi.

 

“I’m no dealer, but I can see what works and what doesn’t. We’ll guess and check.” Well, wouldn’t that take a long time.

 

Yakov smiled, and Georgi set an encouraging hand on the small of my back. “It won’t be that bad.”

 

I started skating.

 

* * *

 

It was that bad.

 

“Left penché!”

 

“Stop!”

 

“Second, demi plié, cambré!”

 

“Battement arondi!”

 

…It had been more than an hour, and I’ve only tried on seven pairs. I could tell which pair was a bit easier to balance in, harder to spin in, but not which was the best combination for me. Yakov, though, from just seeing me fumble on the ice for two minutes, already knew what took my previous coach months to figure out. I didn’t doubt that he could decipher my future in skating from these seemingly random orders.

 

“Fourth into pirouette in attitude, right leading!”

 

My muscles were stretching, and I knew they would be sore in a different way than ballet. More tension. I was literally wearing weights on my feet.

 

Finally, they signaled me back again.

 

I dipped from side to side, swishing my way to Georgi and Yakov, who was muttering under his breath.

 

Sighing, quiet in the backwash of the grind of metal on ice, I asked, “How many are there more?” I was spending enough of their time on me, and Yakov didn’t even address any of the other skaters. He was their coach, not mine. At least, not yet.

 

“That was the last one, my little protégé!” Georgi beamed at me, inappropriate for the excitement I was feeling.

 

How was it that skaters could practice every day for hours on end? I needed to be better than how I was now. This was pathetic, how tired I was.

 

Georgi picked up the sixth pair I tried. It was light and easy for elevation, and turned on a dime like you wouldn’t believe, but it was harder for controlling and skating straight in.

 

“This one’s good for now. If you work on your jumps, maybe we can get you off the crutch.” Ah. I was to relearn jumps in these skates, and then level up if I didn’t need them anymore.

 

Georgi continued. “Now that you have your skates, let’s start with your lesson! I’ve planned this all night!” He popped out my feet from pair number seven, and tied on pair number six.

 

His emotions, it seemed, were contagious. After almost an hour of exercise, my legs were not up for round two. Excitedly, my stomach fluttered.

 

“What are we doing?” I couldn’t help but smile a bit.

 

Georgi spontaneously spun, arms up. “Aww! Betyushenka! You’re so cute!” He moved to lift me up, but I stepped back onto the ice. Ballet didn’t perfectly translate to skating, and I was wondering what I should have done better.

 

“What are my corrections?” I knew my limbs were stiff, and my arms were too robotic. Besides that, I didn’t really know truly how I did. Not without a mirror or a camera, at least. Not like back in Almaty, where the studio’s mirrors honestly gave brutal corrections. Here, there was nothing to rely on but the comments of others.

 

Georgi eyed the high ceiling a bit, humming. “Your jumps are nonexistent, your spins are out of control, and you have zero stamina, but you’ll get those in time. Your ballet shows too much, as well. Ballet is nice for posture and slow steps, but once you start moving faster, your body becomes… static. And your feet. Your feet try to fall into ballet too often, and on ice, it’s sloppy.”

 

In other words, I was a complete mess. Compared to everybody else, I would have zero chances unless I worked harder than any of them. Twice, to hope to catch up. More, to be enough to prove I was worthy.

 

“First though...come here.” I saw Yakov go off to talk to the silver-haired skater who had been bothering the duo the whole time I was trying on skates. Georgi’s dark eyes were kind and creasing. Pensive. Soft.

 

Georgi held my hands, and moved to skate backwards, with us facing each other. “Let loose. Let your body flow. Feel the ice.”

 

We started moving, slowly, through the rim of the rink. Our arms swayed with the swishing steps of our skates.

 

He led us one lap. Three laps. Twelve.

 

Below my feet, the hard ice began to smooth, my movements more connected. Graceful. Like rolling waves.

 

Left, right. Left, right. Left, right.

 

It was calming. Cathartic: more relaxing than the quiet high of running on mile seven. My mind, constantly fast forwarding like a movie roll on double speed, slowed down. Not like how that bastard Baranovskaya liked to think I craved. But on my own terms.

 

Freely.

 

Georgi laughed, his voice ringing in the brisk St. Petersburg air of the skatium. It was like bells. Like wind chimes in Almaty.

 

“Let’s go faster, shall we?”

 

And we did. Him skating backwards, me skating forwards, reddened fingers entwined, bodies softly swinging to the rhythm of our breaths. We went faster and faster, until I felt like we were flying. Feet light, but skates etching deep.

 

“You’re getting it, Betyushenka!” He was happy. I was happy. We both were, cheeks mingling and heartbeats syncing.

 

“I’m getting, it, Zhora!” I exhaled the sentence, hoping he didn’t catch it.

 

“You are! Want to lead, now?” We switched roles, him skating forwards and me skating backwards, hands still clasped together.

 

I wasn’t falling in love. But I was falling. For him, and his kindness, and his eyes.

 

And I wanted this moment to last forever.

 

* * *

 

I was taking a thirty minute stretch break to get my joints warm again. Slowly, in the extra matted locker room floor, I sat in a left lounge, rolling my chin with my palms, elbows on my left kneecap. Reached back and arched, arms grasping my calf as I loosened my shoulders. Exhaled, and felt the cracks popping up my back as I pulled my body tighter. As I repeated with my other leg, I heard the murmur of voices growing closer, distinct from the noise of the rink.

 

“...boy…the…Yasha and Georgi. Victor…” It was more than one person, their Russian thick and brusque. The bad acoustics of the rink bounced their voices into a viscous cream, clearing as they got closer.

 

I spotted them a few seconds before they spotted me. They were the group of Russian skaters eyeing me from a distance. Well, the whole rink was, except for the redhead and the silver-haired teenager, whom both apparently knew Georgi.

 

I quickly unraveled myself from my stretching, and turned to them. Their faces were curious, but speaking of ill temper, and their approach crowded me in the locker room. It was not a good combination.

 

I needed all the good will I could get. “Hello, I’m-”

 

“We know who you are.” The tallest of them smirked. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be nice or smirking for what was coming. “You’re poor little Otabek, the orphan Georgi couldn’t help but take under his wing. Tut, tut. We all saw you out there, flailing on the rink. What do you think this is, a daycare center?”

 

I knew my situation was unusual, as a coach of Yakov’s caliber usually only accepted students of a certain level- most coach transitions happening during a skater’s senior debut. I, beyond doubt, did not match up to any of the usual skaters in this rink, even when they first entered. Nor did I have any previous medals to my name, or technique, either, to be honest. Starting ballet early in this life helped me grow into accurately sensing my center of balance and the feel of my body, but not enough to translate on the ice with a decade’s vacation.

 

This time, a teen, shorter than the first one, spoke nervously, “Georgi wouldn’t of picked him all the way from Kazakstan if he didn’t show some promise, and he did do some jumps and spins…”

 

“He fell on all of them. And did you see his body lines? There were none! Yakov said that he did ballet, but all I can see is a random kid lying.”

 

...Which was true, to an extent. American ballet was loose and by many Europeans, considered sloppy, especially compared to Russian ballet, like that of Vaganova Academy. The hips were more open, the angels more relaxed, the arms more casual. It probably was, to them, a monstrosity butchering the name of ballet.

 

“Georgi shouldn’t of spent time even looking at this boy. He has his senior debut to perfect now, too. He’s sacrificing his career for this no-namer.”

 

I knew that him dragging me to St. Petersburg risked legal consequences, and that I was a complete failure on ice. But for Georgi to also risk his own career on taking me under his wing? He should have focused on himself first! I was a leech, a parasite, worse than useless. I was the thing that would kill his potential, especially during this crucial time of his life.

 

I hummed. “While that is true, Georgi chose me.” Inhale, hold, exhale. Face tight, I looked at them. “In the end, this is what matters. That Georgi chose me, and Yakov approved. Now, I am going to be a skater here for the foreseeable future, because that decision is Georgi’s. Not mine, not yours, or even Yakov’s. Georgi’s. So if you have any problems, please voice them to Georgi.”

 

I confidently strode to the rink, body set with more bravado than I actually had. Georgi was finally practicing, jumping in the lutz corner, and I could feel the music through his interludes. He must of been a musician, then, or was exposed to music heavily all his life. His skating seemed to sing.

 

I didn’t want to bother him, so I self-consciously inched behind Yakov, who was giving pointers to the silver-haired teen.

 

A minute passed. Two. Five, ten, fifteen. By then, it was clear that he wasn’t going to notice me, so I took my skate guards off and entered the ice. Tried copying a simplified version of the silver-haired teen’s dance passes.

 

And after a few hours, returned to Yakov’s mansion.

 

* * *

 

“Hey Bekzat, you busy?” It was after dinner, and Yakov, Georgi and I negotiated the coaching fees and a general timeline. I would practice here until summer, where I would attend Yakov’s summer camp. I was to quietly train, except enter some novice competitions, until my junior debut in four years. If I didn’t show continued good potential, I was to be sent back to Kazakhstan.

 

I had enough money for a couple years, but I didn’t want to be in debt to Baranovskaya. Then again, I would rather owe him than the Russians.

 

“I’m on night duty again, so can I call you back in ten minutes? I’m almost done.” Bekzat’s usually cheery voice was hushed, afraid to wake the hundreds of toddlers they worked so hard to put to sleep.

 

“No problem.” I hung up. Sighed. Thought about the locker room today, and scratched a bit at my itchy arms. But it wasn’t enough, so I bit them. It felt like something crawled up my legs, my arms, my hands, beneath my skin, rising and growing and _itching_.

 

I stood up. Laced my sneakers, zipped my phone in my pocket, and sneaked out of the window.

 

_(Inhale, exhale.)_

 

So I ran.

 

* * *

 

Bekzat didn’t call back.

 

I ran, and ran, and ran.

 

All the Russians know how useless I was.

 

I ran. Felt the shocks vibrate up my heels. Felt the pound of the frozen winter pavement numb my feet.

 

I was ruining Georgi’s career.

 

I ran, the sting of the wind whipping my arms until I could not tell where was red because of me and where was red because of the air.

 

I was subhuman. How anyone could mistake me for an actual person was incomprehensible. I didn’t deserve any of this, and at least some people could recognize me as what I was.

 

I ran, tasting blood in my throat. Ran harder, almost stomping, through stone and crystallized dirt and pavement. My knees felt like the joints of a marionette. Alien. Distant. Moving perpetually through an impetus not mine.

 

My body was still itchy.

 

I was a liar. Everybody at that rink could tell I didn’t do ballet. It was true. I was making up the ballet from whimsical dreams I thought of in childhood. I was making up everything. And I taught the children lies.

 

I ran, falling on a section of black ice I didn’t sidestep. Got up. Fell again, jamming my left pinky. Twisted and cracked the finger until it looked straight, and then ran.

 

I didn't deserve anything. I was a fake. A fake of a human, a fake of an existence. Hypocrite. Liar. Disgusting sinner.

 

I should just die and prevent anyone more to be forced to take care of a burden. I already ruined so many people’s lives. Thousands, the futures of the children of Almaty. Hah. For a hot second, I thought myself accomplished, giving the children knowledge and power. In reality, I had given them nothing but lies, and condemned them to an existence I forced on them. And they all knew I was a pompous git, smiling and pretending that I was their ‘hero’ to assuage my ego. But I now knew the truth. They shouldn’t have had to bear down and act.

 

The problem was simple: Otabek Atlin, disgusting waste of resources. Why he was still alive, the world would never know. The solution was simple: Otabek Atlin would have to die.

 

_(The decision to die is easier than the decision to live. And I am a coward.)_

 

So I turned around, and ran back.

 

* * *

 

By the hazy red sunrise, I found my way to Yakov’s mansion. Luckily, the window was still open, and I quickly entered and toed off my soaked shoes.

 

My arms and feet were red. Too red. Suspiciously red. I changed from my wet pajamas to long sleeves and pants, and hid my swelling pinky with black gloves.

 

As I walked down to the dining table, I heard the chaos of panic. People were running, doors were opening, Russian was shouted through the halls.

 

“Vitya and Maccachin, search the perimeter. Georgi, search the west wing. Mila, search the east wing-”

 

“He’s here!”

 

Who was here?

 

Popovich thudded towards me, yelling to stop the search. In the messy dining room, behind him, stood what looked like a substantial part of the St. Petersburg Ice Club plus Yakov’s helpers.

 

“Where were you?” His face morphed several expressions, and I could not tell what he was feeling. I had to be careful.

 

I heard some people say, “Oh, he’s back,” and “I wasted enough time here,” and ”I’m leaving.” A large group stalked out, seemingly to the rink to practice.

 

“Running.” My voice carried low through the now hushed room. The only people now were Yakov and Popovich. Popovich’s eyes were moving in some way I had not seen before. They were not soft like earlier today. Or was it yesterday?

 

“God, Otabek, where were you? It’s seven fifty! Apparently, you were gone all night!” His voice had risen, deafening in the silence. I felt the weight of stares on me from the people still in the room, heavy and demanding.

 

“I went running. Out. Came back.” I didn’t know what else to say, but that I had to say something.

 

Popovich’s hands reached for my shoulders, and I slid a few centimeters back. I didn’t know what he would do. I didn’t know what he could do.

 

His arms lowered, and his expression looked hurt. Then, his eyebrows knitted together, nostrils flaring, eyes clenching.

 

Ah. I knew this game. He was angry. I was to get out as soon as possible.

 

There were four exits to the dining room- One to the west wing, where Yakov and I stayed, one to the east wing, one to the kitchens, and one to the north wing with the ballet studio, soundproofed music room, the one to the south wing with the gym. I didn’t get to explore upstairs or downstairs yet, but that was what I knew so far.

 

The closest exit to me was the one to my left- the west wing. I could use the window again, but then it would give away my escape route and I didn’t find any more ways to exit my room discretely yet. I could go to the unblocked east wing, but I didn’t know what was in there. The Russians would have an advantage over me.

 

But now, I needed to respond or act before anything more escalates.

 

“If you would kindly direct me to my errors, I would to the best of my abilities correct them posthaste.” Oh, that was wrong. I just insinuated that Georgi was the one at fault, and with that in mind, my whole statement sounded uppity.

 

They looked taken aback. That wasn’t what I was attempting, but it deescalated the situation. Georgi still looked upset, though.

 

“You didn’t call any of us. You didn't text any of us. You didn't even leave a note, Otabek!” My tutor gestured wildly with his hands, stepping closer. It unnerved me. I couldn’t keep track of his hands, facial expressions, body position, atmosphere in the room, and exits at the same time. My breaths started speeding up.

 

_(Inhale. Exhale.)_

 

I stiffened my shoulders, standing straight. “It’s okay to run, Otabek, but you have to tell one of us, okay?” His voice quavered. Was he upset… because of me? Zounds, did I ruin our relationship?

 

“And don’t you dare run off next time for hours. Hours, Otabek! Yakov only knew you were gone because you were late to breakfast and you weren’t there in your room! What if something happened to you?”

 

Yakov grunted. “Well, I checked your room last night because you left your water bottle in the dining room, and you weren't there, so I assumed you were returning in a minute. Then in the morning, you weren’t there either. So that’s how I found out.”

 

“That’s not the point!” Georgi was frantic, now, body animated. “The point is, Okabek, is that right now, you are going to put in all of our numbers in your phone, and tonight, you are staying with me. And you’re grounded until further notice!”

 

I nodded. That was a lot less severe than I anticipated. If Bekzat would grow to be like Georgi, I would be proud of him. Commanding, reasonable, responsible. I would like him to be a bit less driven by emotions, but at the same time, Bekzat’s enthusiasm for everything was what made him Bekzat.

 

But, always, to grow up, there were growing pains.

 

“Here.” I handed my phone to Georgi, taking off my right glove to unlock it. “I will contact you next time I run.”

 

The car ride to the St. Petersburg Ice Club was silent.

 

* * *

 

Georgi was showing me basic jumps: waltz, toe loop, salchow.

 

“Come,” he said. “Higher, here,” he said. “Tighter,” he said. ”Square your hips,” he said.

 

He made me jump with no entrance. Jump with speed. Jump from standing still. Jump from a spread eagle. With no hands up. One hand. Both hands. Again, and again, and again, until the bright sunlight dimmed through the skatium’s floor-to-ceiling arched windows and the white moon gave our figures shadows. Until there was no one there but us.

 

“Don’t leave me,” he said.

 

“I won’t,” I said. And it was that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hinted too hard, did I? Well, tell me if I did, and what I alluded to. I will be excitedly waiting for the answers on the other side of the delightful, addicting invention called the computer. Specifically, my computer. 
> 
> Yes, it is not yours, Schrödinger. Kindly get off my keyboard and stare at me from afar as I finally sleep. 
> 
> Please also don't hesitate to notify me of OOCness, general flow mistakes, and any questions, comments, or concerns. As you can probably tell, this was written with an average of three hours of sleep.


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